It is a long drive in from the railroad to Morrison's. Hite called it
eighteen good miles; the Clown put it at nineteen; what the old
dog estimated it at none knew. He had always trotted the distance
cheerfully.
From Thayor's private flag station, the main road into Big Shanty
snakes along over a flat, sparsely settled valley before it enters
the deep woods. Once in the heavy timber it crossed chattering brooks
skirting the ragged edges of wild ravines. On it goes through the
forest mile after mile, up hill and down, until it emerges abruptly
into the open country at the head of the "Deadwater," passes
Morrison's, is met half a mile farther on by the new road leading down
from Big Shanty camp, and continues straight ahead through a rough
notch out to a valley twelve miles beyond.
It was over this road that Alice Thayor went to her exile.
Thayor and Holcomb, this rare August afternoon, were at the flag
station to meet the "Wanderer"--the banker's private car, with a
spick-and-span three-seated buckboard and a fast team of bays. Aboard
the car were Alice and Margaret, Blakeman and Annette.
Alice Thayor's first meeting with Holcomb since the time when he saved
her husband's life, consisted of a slight nod of recognition and an
annoyed "How do you do?" She wore a smart travelling gown of Scotch
homespun and a becoming toque of gray straw enveloped in a filmy
dragon-green veil. Holcomb thought it strange that Thayor kissed his
daughter and simply greeted his wife with the question, "I do hope you
were comfortable, dear, coming up?"
"The heat was something frightful," she replied, lifting the
dragon-green veil wearily and binding it straight across her forehead.
"My head is splitting."
Holcomb glanced at her exquisite features. The brilliancy of her
dark eyes was enhanced by the pallor of her ivory skin. Alice Thayor
loathed travelling.
Margaret had greeted him far more graciously; she had extended her
firm little gloved hand to him, with genuine delight in her brown
eyes, and had told him how very glad indeed she was to see him--which
was the truth. During the drive in her mother scarcely opened her
lips. She sat in the middle seat beside her daughter, haughtily
gracious and inwardly bored. Margaret's enthusiasm irritated her.
The woman going to her exile was in no mood to enthuse over nature.
Holcomb drove, with Thayor on the front seat beside him; on the back
seat sat Blakeman and Annette, in respectful silence. As they entered
the deep woods at a smart trot, Margaret half closed her eyes in sheer
ecstasy and drew in a long, delicious breath of forest air.
"My--but that's good, daddy!" she exclaimed. Everything was of intense
interest to her. The sudden glimpse of some great mountain towering
above the trees; the velvety green, billowy moss; the merry little
brooks they crossed; the whirring flight of a startled partridge and
now the sinking sun flooding the silent woods with gold. When she was
not in ecstasies over these, her brown eyes glanced at the clean-cut,
handsome profile of the young woodsman who was so skilfully driving
the bay team.
He was no longer the awkward and embarrassed young fellow she
remembered that summer at Long Lake. He had, she realized much to her
agreeable surprise, the ease and manner of a well-bred man about
him now. His honest, cheery frankness appealed to her; moreover, she
thought him exceedingly handsome.
"That's where the line crosses," said Holcomb, pointing quickly to a
blazed hemlock.
"Oh, look, mother--quick!" cried Margaret.
"We're in Big Shanty tract now, dear," explained Thayor. "The line we
have just passed strikes due east from here and runs--how far, Billy?"
"Oh--clear to Alder Brook--about fifteen miles, before it corners
south."
Alice's lips grew tense; she was beginning to realize the vastness of
her husband's purchase. She began to wonder, too, how much it had cost
him--this folly of Sam's.
"And is it all as beautiful as this?" asked Margaret of the young man
whose strong brown hands held the reins.
"Yes, Miss Thayor, and some of it is a good deal better looking."
"You shall see, dearie," added Thayor; "I've a surprise in store for
you both--yes, a hundred surprises. We will cross the East Branch of
Big Shanty Brook in a moment--that is surprise number one. How is the
headache, Alice--better?"
"A little," she returned indifferently.
"Listen!" said Thayor; "hear it? That's the East Branch roaring."
"Oh--I'm just crazy to see it!" cried Margaret. "It was on the West
Branch you killed the deer, wasn't it, daddy?"
Thayor nodded and smiled.
"Now look, puss!" he commanded, as they reached the rough bridge
spanning the East Branch.
Margaret peered down into the heavy black water a hundred feet below
them.
"Daddy, it's gorgeous--simply gorgeous," exclaimed Margaret. "Look,
mother, at the water swirling through that green pool. Oh, _do_ look,
mother." Alice condescended to look.
"Isn't it superb, Alice?" ventured Thayor.
"Yes--Sam--but lonely."
In the twilight the great brook boiled below them.
"It ain't so lonely," remarked Holcomb pleasantly, turning to Mrs.
Thayor, "when the sun is shining." He had dropped into his native
dialect, which now and then cropped out in his speech.
"I suppose it _ain't_," said Alice in a whisper to Margaret. The girl
touched her mother's arm pleadingly.
"Please don't," she said; "he might hear you. It really isn't kind in
you, mother. You know they speak so differently in the country."
Holcomb had heard it, but not a muscle twitched in resentment. He
tightened the reins, and for a mile drove in silence.
"And this is the man your father lunched with at The Players,"
continued Alice under her breath.
Margaret did not reply.
Presently they came out into the valley at the head of the Deadwater,
still as ink, reflecting the barkless trees it had killed so clearly
that it was difficult to see the point of immersion. Then the plain
gabled roof of Morrison's came into view above a flat of young
poplars, the silver leaves shivering in the breeze.
Morrison, who had been sweeping off his narrow porch, in his
shirt-sleeves, came out into the road at the rapid approach of the
buckboard.
"Hello thar!" he shouted, and Holcomb stopped at an insistent gesture
from the proprietor.
"Hain't seen nothin' of a barril of kerosene fer me down thar, hev
ye?" he asked. "Gosh durn it!--it oughter been here more'n a week
ago."
"Nothing there for you. Jimmy's coming along with the trunks," replied
Holcomb. "He won't start before the freight gets in."
"Evenin', Mr. Thayor," said Morrison. "Wall, ye've got 'em all here
now, haven't ye?" he remarked, running his shrewd eyes over the filled
seats.
"Mrs. Thayor and my daughter, Mr. Morrison," said Thayor.
"Pleased to meet you, marm." Morrison raised his hat and stretched out
a coarse red hand. Alice extended three fingers of her own despite her
repulsion. There was really no other way out of it. "And here's the
little gal, I 'spose," continued the proprietor. Margaret laughed as
she shook hands. "Won't ye stop and take something, friend?" he asked
Blakeman. Blakeman raised his eyebrows in protest.
"_Mon Dieu!_" whispered Annette.
"Relations of yourn, Mrs. Thayor?" asked Morrison, noticing Annette's
embarrassment.
Alice straightened. "My maid!" she said stiffly.
"Wall, I'm sorry none of ye ain't dry," said Morrison.
"No, thank you," replied Thayor; "we must be getting up to camp."
Again the bays fell into a brisk trot.
Alice was furious.
"Who is that dreadful person, Sam?" she asked.
"You must not mind him, Alice. He meant well enough," explained her
husband. "Morrison's rough, I'll grant you, but he's a good fellow at
heart."
"It was only his way," added Holcomb. "He didn't mean to be impolite,
Mrs. Thayor."
"Of course he didn't, mother," added Margaret with a glance at
Holcomb.
The bays turned suddenly to the left into the new road. Alice emitted
a sigh of relief. There was a sense of luxury--of exclusiveness--in
passing over its smooth surface. Morrison and his common hotel, with
its blear-eyed windows, were now well out of sight. Presently the camp
lay ahead of them--an orderly settlement of trim buildings. Margaret
was too excited to do more than gaze ahead of her with eager interest.
"Here we are!" exclaimed Thayor. "There, Alice, you can thank Mr.
Holcomb for all you see; I really had nothing to do with it."
His wife did not reply. Only Margaret's eyes met his own--a pair of
brown eyes that seemed to be half sunshine and half tears.
As they drew up to the wide veranda of the camp, the trapper and the
Clown came slowly across the compound to meet them; at the heels of
the trapper stalked the old dog, watching the new arrivals with a
certain dignified interest.
There was nothing strange in the fact that when Alice Thayor saw Big
Shanty Camp she made no comment. It was a bitter disappointment to
Thayor, yet he knew in his heart that he could not have expected her
to do otherwise. Having reached her exile she had been careful to
conceal any outward expression of her approval or dislike. Had the
camp at that moment been filled with a jolly house-party, including
Dr. Sperry, she could have been content to romp in a fashionable way
within it for a week--even a fortnight. It was the thought that it was
her home--a home which she had tried to evade and had been brought to
bodily in the end--that rankled in her heart. She retired early, but
could not sleep. She lay in bed for an hour or more, turning over in
her mind the situation. The realization of her defeat stirred within
her the old dominant spirit. She realized that her imprisonment had
begun. After half an hour more of restless thinking she crept out
of bed, tucked her feet into a pair of slippers, drew a silk wrapper
about her and crossed to the open window. Leaning with her elbows upon
its sill she stood for a long time gazing out over the wilderness.
The night was mild and hushed. It was almost certain that with dawn
would come a downpour of rain; the tree-toads already heralded
the good news. The dry hemlocks whispered it. Bathed in a gauze
of moonlight the forest rolled away--silent--mighty in its
expanse--promising nothing. Big Shanty Brook gleamed defiantly past in
a riot of rapids and whirlpools. Flashing in the crisp sunlight,
these rapids and whirlpools shone in inviting splendour; at night they
became terrible.
It was this torrent that swept below the woman leaning on the window
sill; it mocked her, roaring with joy, chuckling to itself at the
prisoner, every leaping crest in the chaos of foam rearing again for
a last glimpse of the exile, and, having seen, dashed on to give place
to those who followed. Little waves fawned by, partisans in the same
mockery.
Suddenly she buried her face in her ringless hands:
"My God--I can't stand this!" she moaned. "I can't and I won't!" she
muttered helplessly. Then she broke into hysterical sobbing, pressing
her nails into the sensitive flesh of her temples; her lips trembling
in a nervous chill. Her body grew cold, chilling even her bare feet
thrust deep in her slippers. The torrent of Big Shanty became to her
a jeering crowd, unlimitless--that poured from nowhere and dashed on
into the unknown. She shut her eyes tight. In the darkness now she saw
only Sperry; she saw him plainly--close to her, as one sees a face
in a dream. She felt the idle, comforting tone of his voice--the warm
pressure of his hand--and with her mental vision, looked into his
eyes.
"Be patient, dear friend," he said to her quite clearly. Could she
have looked on Sperry at that moment she would have found him playing
billiards at his club, his whole mind occupied in making a difficult
carom shot. When he made it he ordered a fresh brandy and soda.
The roar of Big Shanty continued. An owl screamed hoarsely from
somewhere in the timber below. Alice shuddered, her cheeks burning
against the palms of her cold hands, and crept back to bed.
Margaret, too, had been gazing out of her window. Big Shanty to her
meant a new life--she, too, had been crying, but from sheer happiness.